


Bump in the Road

by enjolrolo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Discussion of Overdose, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrolo/pseuds/enjolrolo
Summary: Jack has a bad week.





	Bump in the Road

**Author's Note:**

> [Link](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12LegmyJ-rV2JCe9wn-6S4SpAurX3B_dnht3BPHZVcKc) to translations of French throughout. A hundred thanks to emimix3 for proofreading my French!!

Jack has a very specific routine.

His alarm goes off at five, and then he grabs breakfast, usually peanut butter on toast and a banana. He brushes his teeth and fills up a water bottle and gets himself out the door for a run by five twenty-seven.

The route he takes is essentially the same every day, down the street until he hits the park and then a wide loop that takes him near the docks and brings him back to his street ten miles later. It’s early enough that it’s just sleepy commuters and a dark sky and his music and cold air burning his lungs.

The trainer on the team tells him quite often that he shouldn’t be running long distances, that it’s not an effective use of his time and that he should be working on anaerobic exercises or short sprints. This is the one thing that Jack doesn’t listen to him about, because it’s been part of his schedule since juniors--the last time he’d taken a break from running was the months leading up to the draft. Understandably, he wants to steer clear of that period of time as much as he can.

The run usually takes him about an hour, and he finds himself back in his apartment by six forty-three after stretching to cool down. He eats again, usually just a protein shake, and then takes a cold shower that lasts about six minutes.

Most of his day is planned like this, down to a specific minute (nine twenty three is when he sends Bitty a good morning text, ten oh seven is when he gets to his car to drive to practice, one sixteen is when he’s home to find lunch for himself, three o’clock is when he usually takes a nap). Jack likes predictability and routine, it’s how he knows he’s functioning.

When Bitty’s over, that schedule is usually fudged a little, but if he’s with someone else, there’s less of a chance he can fall apart. It’s not something he worries about when Bitty’s there making food or doing his homework or watching TV or dancing in the kitchen.

But Bitty can’t be over all the time, and it’s been made clear to Jack that when he’s alone, he needs to be vigilant about how he’s doing--when he starts to get bad, he has the potential to get _very_ bad very quickly.

Which is why, when Jack is awake and it’s four fifty-one, he’s aware something’s wrong.

He’s not supposed to wake up until his alarm goes off in nine minutes. He stares at the ceiling and thinks that he should tell someone before this turns into an issue. Then he decides that everyone would think he’s stupid for making a big deal out of waking up early, so instead, he gets up five minutes early and goes to find breakfast.

His run is faster than normal. He’s not sprinting, but his ten-mile pace gets swapped for a seven-mile one somewhere along the way. By the time he reaches the park, it’s only five twenty-two and he’s way ahead of schedule.

Jack returns to his apartment feeling off-balance and sort of grumpy. He’s been doing well, these last few months. Things with Bitty are great, and the team is good, and he’s been _doing well_ . He isn’t sure what’s changed--the hardest part for him is figuring out _why_ he’s feeling something--but maybe it’ll pass soon.

He decides to send his text to Bitty early, because his apartment is too quiet and he keeps having to catch his breath and Therese-his-therapist had pointed out ten years ago that if he was feeling out of breath or panicky that meant he should take it easy on himself.

Considering he has practice soon, the easiest Jack can take it is talking to Bitty.

 

**[TEXT MSG] Bittle**

_9:06 AM, 15th Jan._

**Jack:** Good morning :)

 **Bittle:** morning mssr zimmermann!!!  <3

 **Bittle:** how are you?

 **Bittle:** I have been robbed of sleep by holster and ransom’s snail debate AGAIN

 **Jack:** Ransom is right.

 **Bittle:** we ALL know that ransom is right! i’m about to suspend pie privileges.

 **Jack:** :0

 **Bittle:** was that

 **Bittle:** was that an emoticon without a nose.

 

They text for a long time, Jack completely zoning out from the rest of his silent apartment in favor of smiling at his phone. By the time he needs to leave, he already feels a little better, especially because Bitty hasn’t noticed that he’s texted earlier than normal. Maybe Jack’s making a big deal out of nothing.

 

The game coming up must be what’s bothering Jack, because his mind races the entire drive to practice, and doesn’t stop when he gets into the locker room. He keeps his head down and puts his skates on and tells himself to stop overreacting, but it’s becoming clear that he wasn’t overestimating what a change in schedule means for him.

“You feelin’ okay, kiddo?” Marty asks as they jog around the rink for a warm-up. He’s watching Jack closely, and Jack is careful to keep his face as blank as possible. Marty is more observant than most.

If he starts admitting to whatever anxiety he’s feeling, he’ll 1) admit it’s real, possibly magnifying it, and 2) start to worry other people on the team. He knows George is always on watch to see when he starts feeling overwhelmed--in case he’ll start fucking up and digging himself back down into a hole, possibly causing bad press for her organization. Hopefully this will pass in a few days, because she doesn’t need to deal with any more of his nonsense.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” Jack says, shrugging. He knows it’ll work, and--sure enough, Marty holds up his hands and ups his pace to get away from Jack.

“If you get me sick, you’ll have Gabby after you,” he threatens over his shoulder, and Jack manages a laugh.

Having his gear on helps. Something about the pressure of his pads on his shoulders helps him feel grounded and less jittery. It’s enough to get him to focus on the drills and not screw anything up too badly, at least. Practice feels longer than an hour, but he doesn’t start hyperventilating or miss too many shots or get yelled at, so. Good enough.

“I heard you sick,” Tater says to Jack when they’re back in the locker room. Jack looks up from where he’s been zeroing on tying his shoes for what’s probably been too long. He’d been trying to wait out the other guys, to get a moment to himself to breathe, but Tater seems to have other plans.

Jack nods, unsurprised that Marty’s told everyone in an attempt to stop the spread of germs throughout the team. The Falconers don’t need a repeat of the Schooners-Bronchitis Fiasco of 2012. “Might just be the head cold going around.”

“We need you better on Friday,” Tater says. “For game. Be better by then, yes?”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” Jack’s chest feels tight. He takes a deep breath and slings his bag over his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

 

Jack takes his nap at two instead of three, can’t stay asleep for longer than ten minutes, and gives up in frustration after two thirty. It’s not that he really needs a nap, he’s not seven, but it’s _routine_. Sometimes, when he’s anxious, he can sleep it off and be better by evening.

No such luck today, it seems. He turns on the TV to have some background noise, but the sound grates on his ears and he ends up turning it off again before lying back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He’s been running his hand over the blanket draped over the back of the couch for fifteen minutes now so the texture will soothe him.

His just-for-emergencies medication is in the cupboard, but he’s been instructed not to touch it unless he feels like he’s going to have a panic attack. Jack’s wary of using it anyway--he’s avoided using it thus far, and if he finally does, it’ll be like he’s failing again. He can handle one bad day without going back on all his progress.

 

One bad day turns into two. He has to pull over on his way to practice to force himself to breathe and to get his hands to stop shaking on the steering wheel. He doesn’t _get it_. His anxiety has been better since being in Providence, there’s no reason for this game in particular to be freaking him out.

He shows up only fifteen minutes early instead of his customary half an hour. Thirdy gives him a weird look as he enters the locker room. “Everything okay?”

A few heads turn to see his response. Jack sees Marty looking at him and has a panicked moment of _is it-that-obvious-will-they-find-out_ before he responds with a impressively casual “Yeah. Car troubles.” He’s glad he normally speaks in monotone, that he grew out of being enthusiastic when he was six or so. People stop looking his way, at least.

“The Senators won their game last night,” Poots is saying as he sets his bag down.

“Yeah, against the Flames.” Snowy rolls his eyes. “You gotta stop giving them more credit than they deserve, man.” He jabs a thumb over at Jack. “Follow this dude’s lead.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asks.

“Cool as a cucumber, see?” Snowy elbows Poots. “He isn’t even bothered.”

“You’re not worried for Friday?” Poots asks Jack, eyebrows furrowed.

Jack’s heart skips a beat. It’s been doing that all morning. He has absolutely no reason to be worked up over a game against the Senators, he reminds himself. He gets out a robotic “We’ll be fine, Poots, we’ve beat them before” that sounds encouraging enough.

“Yeah, but that was last year. When they didn’t have their new offensive line.”

Poots gets punched on the arm for that one, and Snowy points threateningly at him. “Stressing out about it isn’t going to do a fuckin’ thing, Poots. Don’t bring your negative bullshit in here.”

 

Suppressing his own negative bullshit works for the the duration of practice. He’s changed and pulling his coat on when he realizes that in his haze of trying to be calm, he’d forgotten to text Bitty that morning. It’s a bit of a last straw, and Jack pulls his hat down over his eyes and picks up his bag, slipping from the locker room and heading for the parking lot as his breathing does nothing but speed up.

Jack unlocks his car and gets inside before he lets the panic take over.

 _He hates you_ , his brain screams, over and over. He presses his forehead to the top of the steering wheel and screws his eyes shut. _Everyone does._ He thinks he should text Bitty and apologize, but.

 _He doesn’t want to hear from you_.

He hurts. Jack’s hands throb, and he wrings them together and prays that nobody’s going to see him like this, especially cameras-- _fuck, nobody_ can see him like this.

_Everyone already knows you’re a complete disaster._

The attack eventually passes, a century later. He sits there for a long time, too exhausted to do something about how wrecked he must look.

Eventually, when he’s feeling more stable, Jack takes out his phone, scrolls through the sixteen texts from Bitty, and sends a quick “Sorry. Phone was dead haha. Good morning.”

He puts his phone down on the passenger seat and wishes he could evaporate.

 

Therese-his-therapist is back in his head, reminding him that he’s agreed to tell someone when he has a panic attack. Instead of doing this when he gets home, he spends three hours watching and reading the latest media coverage on both the Senators and the Falconers, skipping his nap in favor of internalizing every comment about his shortcomings as a player. He’s getting more and more uncertain about the game coming up, and it’s only Wednesday.

At four oh six, a Skype notification pops up, interrupting the recap of the Senators vs. Flames game from last Friday that Jack’s watching, telling him that Bitty’s calling.

“Hi, honey!” Bitty says as soon as the call opens. For the first time today, Jack doesn’t have to fake a smile. “You would not _believe_ what Jessica in Finance said today.”

“She’s the Flat Earther, right?”

"No, that’s Paula.” Bitty waves his hand. “Jessica’s the turnip girl, remember?”

Jack had barely remembered the Flat Earther. His head feels fuzzy. “I do not.”

For a long time, he just listens to Bitty talk. Bitty’s used to monologuing, and his sweet voice is perfect for Jack to get his mind on something else and unwind a little. He finds himself feeling considerably less keyed up by the time Bitty says, “Anyway, enough about me. How was your day, sweetheart?”

Jack is now supposed to say that he had a panic attack, so he’s not just giving the illusion that he’s a functional human being, so he’s not essentially catfishing his boyfriend as the idea of a worthwhile partner (he’s still sort of hazy on what catfishing is, but he wants to avoid it at all costs). He needs to tell Bitty about his problems--even though Bitty is stressed about his exams coming up and worrying about coming out to his parents and generally has a lot on his plate.

Jack blinks. “Oh--good. It was good. Just. Practice, again.”

“You sure?” Bitty asks, frowning.

Jack’s heart skips, and he tries not to grimace. “I’m fine. Guy has a cold, I feel like he might have given it to me.”

“You boys have _got_ to stop sharing water bottles,” Bitty laughs, doing a good impression of the literal sun, but he doesn’t look any less worried. “I’m coming over on Friday, I’ll make you some soup or something for after your game."

Right, the game. Jack smiles and nods, despite the fact that his stomach has dropped at the reminder. “Sounds great, bud. What were you saying about Holster’s new play?”

 

**[GROUP] wiggles discourse**

_6:30 PM, 16th Jan._

**Jack:** holster i hate to be the bearer of bad news but

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** oh shit holtzy jacks about to FLAME you

 **Jack:** i do think it’s illegal to bring a dog on ice.

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** YES! IT IS

 **Bill Belichick:** I have very clearly stated that the dog would be hardly visible to the referees by use of strategic padding.

 **Jack:** there’s still a height issue.

 **Bill Belichick:** The dog would be concealed inside of an existing player’s jersey.

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** okay but you do realize that’s fucking nuts dude

 **Bill Belichick:** You’re fucking nuts!

 **Lardo:** how abt we all as a team stop fucking nuts

 **Nursey:** wait i just got here whos nuts are we fucking

 **SHARKBOY:** _[AdventureTimeDeerHands.gif]_

 **Bitty:** SJLDFKSDKFLJFSDKJDFKJL CHOWDER PLEASE

 

It’s day three of Jack’s low mood, and he has to drink two extra cups of coffee in the morning because he slept so badly. Usually, he only has one, and the added caffeine isn’t doing his anxiety any favors. In fact, his heart is racing and he has to open all the windows in his apartment because he gets the sensation that he’s suffocating.

He arrives twenty-three minutes early for practice and changes in a weird, disjointed way, focusing more on the thoughts that have been on a loop since he woke up at four fifty-six this morning and the fact that he feels like he’s moving so fast he could crash if he isn’t careful. Jack doesn’t realize he’s been standing motionless at his locker for too long until he startles at a hand on his shoulder, and finds Thirdy gesturing to the door. “Let’s go warm up,” he suggests. Jack nods and follows him, and finds Marty tagging along with them as he goes.

“Sure you’re alright there, Zimmermann?” Marty asks once they’re down the hall from the locker room. “Seems like you’re pretty sick.”

It’s clear that Marty knows he lied. Thirdy probably didn’t buy his car troubles excuse yesterday either. Jack doesn’t want to get into a habit of confiding in his coworkers about his emotions--he knows they’re only asking because they need to know he’s okay to play--so he just says, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Is this about the game?” Thirdy nudges him.

“This--no.” Jack makes up a wild lie on the spot, a last-ditch attempt to throw them off his back. “My neighbors are renovating, so there’s--drilling happening. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I see. Makes _sense_.” Thirdy makes very obvious eye contact with Marty.

Jack decides to press his luck, because while his pounding heart hasn't slowed down yet, he's going to crash from the caffeine soon. “Do either of you want to do a Faceoff later? I forgot I had an appointment--”

“I got it,” Marty says. He claps Jack on the back. “Take it easy, kiddo.”

 

His mom calls him at six fourteen, right after he’s finished eating dinner and he’s started pointedly ignoring the bottle of pills in his cabinet again. The coffee had worn off during practice, leaving him drained, and he’d taken an extra-long nap today that’s made him groggy. “J’ai pensé que je tu verrais dans le _Faceoff_ aujourd’hui,” is what Alicia says instead of hello, “tu vas bien?”

His skin feels like it’s buzzing, the tips of his fingers tingling. Bitty had texted him something similar ten minutes ago, and the only reason he’d handled _that_ well was because it wasn’t a live interaction. He decides he needs to stop keeping people so up-to-date on everything he’s doing--and then he wants to punch himself because isn’t that what he’s _supposed_ to do when he’s feeling bad? Therese had told him to keep others informed about his life.

Why is it so hard?

“Je pouvais pas--Je pouvais pas le faire, aujourd’hui. J'ai eu quelque chose d’autre de prévu. Désolé.”

“Oh, tu n'as pas besoin de t'excuser, je viens aux nouvelles. Comment ça va?” 

Alicia’s voice is comforting, even as Jack is devoting all his remaining energy to keeping his voice steady. “Bien. Oui, euh, ça va.” He wanders to the couch and sits down, pulls his knees up to his chest. “Et vous?”

“Super, merci. Papa a loué _Sister Act_ et on va avoir un soir calme. Tu es bienvenue de venir,” Alicia jokes.

“Je n’ai aucune idée de ce qu'est  _Sister Act_ ,” Jack tells her, and she snorts.

“Je te l'ai fait écouter quand tu avais sept ans. Tu t'étais endormi en moins de dix minutes.” In the background, Jack hears the rumble of his dad’s voice. Alicia, muffled like she’s leaning away from the microphone, says, “C’est Jack. Je pense pas qu’il ne sait pas qui est Whoopi Goldberg.”

“Oh, ouais, c'est une fan des Rangers,” Jack says, even though Bitty made him watch the 1997 version of Cinderella last month. Alicia makes a sound like she’s been shot with an arrow.

“ _Jack Laurent--!_ Bob! Tu as entendu ça?” Alicia exclaims. “Ton fils pense que Whoopi Goldberg est importante parce qu’elle est fan des _Rangers_!”

Bob laughs, more audible now. The call must be on speakerphone. “Et? C’est tout, ouais?”

“Je vais dire au magazine  _People_ qu’on va divorcer,” Alicia says, her voice flat, and Bob cackles in the background, “ _Non, pas encore!_ ”

Jack smiles, but it fades quickly. He realizes he’s been running his hand over the blanket on the couch again, and he pulls his hand away from the comforting texture, embarrassed even though no one’s around to see him. “Je vous retiendrai pas. Bonne nuit. Bon film.”

“On se parle demain!” Bob shouts.

“Bonne nuit, Jack.” She pauses, then says, “Dors un peu plus, bébé.”

She knows something’s up. Jack is just grateful she hasn’t called him out directly. “D’accord. Au revoir, Maman.”

 

It’s the morning of the game, and Jack skips his run. He knows that if he goes, he’ll push himself too hard and possibly hurt himself, so he turns off his alarm and pulls his covers back on and stares at the wall and tries not to hate himself.

Skipping the run was probably a good idea, but it means that he’s feeling tired and restless when he shows up to the rink for morning skate a few hours later--the only thing keeping him going at this point is that Bitty said he was planning to be over for lunch. Jack’s trying to remind himself that it’s okay that his schedule’s a little off, that it’s okay for him to take a different pace to take care of himself. It’s not working. He’s almost to the locker room when another panic attack starts to creep up over him, his chest tightening and fingers buzzing.

If he goes into the locker room, he’s going to have a meltdown. If he gets the panic attack over with somewhere else, he might only be a minute late--and Snowy is usually later than that. It’s the better of the two options, so making the split-second decision, Jack ducks into an equipment storage closet and puts his back against the door.

It’s becoming apparent that he can’t breathe--he’s hyperventilating worse than he had yesterday. Usually, he’s able to talk himself out of doing so, but all he can think is _you’re going to lose_ and _everyone knows you’re worthless_ and _why did you think you were ever functional as an adult._ He reaches for his phone--to call _who_ , he doesn’t know--but his brain screeches _don’t you_ dare _ask for help_ and he stops.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and tips his head back to rest against the door. The cool metal is helping, sort of, but he can barely feel it over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

If he doesn’t get his act together soon, someone’s going to hear him. Someone’s going to find out and tell _everyone_ that he’s unstable.

He needs to get his shit together. Now.

He just.

 _Can’t_ steady his hands--

There are voices outside, and he’s scared enough that he gets air into his lungs and holds it. The voices eventually recede, and he doubles over himself to cough.

Jack checks his phone once he’s feeling stable enough to walk, and finds that he has three minutes to get to the locker room before he’s late. He spends two pressing his face to the door and breathing carefully to try and keep his face from being blotchy, and then he emerges from the closet and holds his head high and walks into the locker room right on time.

“You okay, Zimmboni?” Tater asks immediately, and heads swivel to look at him.

Jack breathes, ignores the urge to wring his hands together as they keep throbbing. “I told you I was coming down with something,” he says, and sniffles to prove his point. It works on most of the guys, but Thirdy doesn’t look away and Marty’s furrowing his eyebrows and Tater looks wholly unconvinced. Jack gives them his tight-lipped press smile and puts his bag down.

 

It takes until lunchtime for someone to confront him about it. They’ve gotten out of their meetings and Jack is feeling marginally better about the game now that he’s reminded of their strategy, is able to keep his head up above the wave of anxiety rushing at him as he starts to walk back to his car to head home for lunch. Bitty had said he would be there when Jack got home from practice, and he knows that being late is one thing that would alert Bitty to a problem immediately.

He’s glad for the confidence he’s built up, because it’s what keeps him acting natural when Tater catches up to him as he exits the building. The way Tater’s watching him makes him feels extremely closed in, all of a sudden, but he doesn’t break stride. “Not staying for lunch?” Jack asks.

“Trying new sandwich place two blocks away.” Tater shrugs, but as Jack suspected he would, he doesn’t peel away when Jack walks towards the parking lot. “You want to tell me what is happen?”

Jack’s chest tightens, but he breathes through it and keeps his face neutral. “I have a cold.”

“We know you not sick,” Tater says bluntly.

“I’m definitely--”

“You sad this week. Problem with Bits?”

“No, Bitty’s fine. I’m going to meet him right now.” He makes a big show of unlocking his car so he doesn’t have to look at Tater. He shouldn’t say a word about how he’s feeling, it’ll just weird Tater out and he’ll tell everyone and--

Tater is earnest and concerned and friendly. He’s never been one to spread rumors, besides the time he told a reporter Marty was retiring, starting a big rumor that took Marty a month to kill, all because Marty ate the last slice of Bitty’s maple-crusted apple pie. Other than that, Tater is trustworthy.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. His voice sounds harsher than he means it to, so he tries to soften it by asking, “You want a ride to the sandwich place?”

Tater shakes his head, raises his hand in a wave, starts to walk away. “Is opposite of home for you. Drive safe.”

Jack feels guilty all the way to his apartment.

 

Jack arrives at twelve forty five, and he feels like crying from relief when he opens the door and the living room is illuminated and warm and smelling like the bread Bitty’s making. It’s a whole different place when Bitty’s here.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bitty calls, and Jack drops his bag and kicks off his shoes and gives himself a second to breathe with his face pressed to the cool door before answering.

“Hi, Bits. How was your drive?” he asks. He wanders to the kitchen, and Bitty meets him halfway with a big hug.

“Boring. I sat next to an old man on the bus who had crocs on, in this year of our Lord and Savior,” Bitty sighs, getting up on tiptoes to kiss Jack.

“Sounds like a ‘fashion icon,’” Jack says against Bitty’s lips. Bitty squawks at him and pulls out of the hug, spluttering. “Did I not use that right?”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Bitty accuses, but leans up to kiss him again anyway. “I decided we could save the soup for later, after the game, but I brought some stuff to make it. You’re not sounding too sniffly, anyway.”

Jack nods. “Feeling a lot better. Just a headache, now.”

“Well, the bread just got out of the oven. You can probably lie down for a few while I fix lunch.” Bitty smiles and starts to head back to the kitchen, but Jack reaches out and touches his shoulder to stop him. He feels better with Bitty around, and he knows his anxiety isn’t going to let him sleep on his own.

“Bits. Could you actually...Do you mind. Taking a nap with me? After we eat?” Jack asks. His fingers are buzzing again, and he’s worried Bitty can feel it from where Jack’s touching him.

“Of course.” Bitty takes his hand and squeezes. His eyes say he’s onto the fact that something’s going on besides a common cold, but he doesn’t say anything out loud yet.

In an attempt to change the subject, Jack asks, “How’s Jessica?”

“Oh, she’s the worst,” Bitty complains, and launches onto a heated tangent. His eyes are worried, though, and Jack hates that he’s opened his stupid mouth and put something new on Bitty’s plate to stress about, just because he’s anxious about a game against a team they’ve beat before.

Jack has a seat at the bar with a premade salad from the fridge, listens to Bitty tear Jessica to shreds, and wrings his hands together under the counter.

 

Bob calls at three oh eight, when both of them are still putting off getting up from their nap. Bitty leans over and checks the phone, says, “Oh, it’s Bob, you should get it,” and Jack reaches over and answers the call.

“Bonjour, Papa,” he says, rolling away from Bitty and sitting up. Something’s weird about talking to his dad while cuddling his boyfriend.

“Hey, Jack!” Bob says. “T'es excité pour le match?”

Jack isn’t. “Oui, ça devrait être sympa.”

“Et tu es prêt?” Bob asks.

Jack isn’t. “Oui. Comment ça va?”

“Bien! Ouais. Maman et moi va regarder, alors, jouez-bien, eh?”

Jack’s _trying._ “Haha.” He turns his head, and Bitty’s watching him with the same worried look he’d had earlier.

“Pas de stress, Jack. C’est juste les Senators, _hah_.”

It’s just the Senators, so Jack had better win, is what Bob means. Jack’s chest feels like there’s a belt tightening around it. “Je ferais de mon mieux.”

“Je sais. Le gardien est très bon cette saison, non?”

He tries not to think about the possibility that his shots don’t go in, that he loses the game and reporters notice his trembling hands and publish an article about how his cocaine addiction is ruining his career a second time. “Anderson. Oui. On va voir.”

“D’accord. Bonne chance.” They’ve decided, as a rule, to keep their pre-game conversations short and sweet. Jack still doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to a point where any conversation about hockey with his dad doesn’t devolve into more anxiety, because he sure hasn’t gotten there yet.

“Merci, Papa. Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi. Bye.”

“Bye.” He hangs up and pulls Bitty back into his arms, knowing Bitty can feel the tremors that have started in his hands again. Bitty, to his credit, doesn’t mention it.

 

**[GROUP] Ryan Getzlaf Made Money Off The Iraq War**

_4:19 PM, 18th Jan._

**Bertrand S Knight:** GOOD LUCK TONIGHT JACKY

 **Bertrand S Knight:** YOU GOT THIS YOU FUCKING BEAUT

 **Nursey:** hell yeah

 **SHARKBOY:** fuck it UP jack!!!

 **SHARKBOY:** i meant that positively!!! in case it wasn’t clear

 **SHARKBOY:** 420 nice

 **Nursey:** blaze it

 **Bill Belichick:** Oh hey it’s 4:20

 **Dextrose:** did u all really send those at the same time i hate this chat

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** y’all*

 **Bill Belichick:** Y’all*

 **Nursey:** y’all *

 **Bitty:** fuck off yall

 **Nursey:** hey Booty where’s Jack

 **Nursey:** we’re trying to encourage the dude

 **Bertrand S Knight:** did i REALLY MISS 420 AGAIN

 **Bitty:** he’s driving right now. i’m sure he’ll check in a little while

 **Bertrand S Knight:** Hey Jack it’s called text-to-speech can you please accommodate us

 **Dex:** yeah how rude hes not watching us talk abt weed when he has an actual NHL game happening in two hours

 **Bertrand S Knight:** Really Poindexter? As if it’s a burden for him to cater directly to me at all times?

 **Bertrand S Knight** : I’m a fucking DELIGHT

 **Jack:** Thanks guys.

 **SHARKBOY:** we love you Jack!!!

 **SHARKBOY:** some more than others ;)

 **Bitty:** good heavens, christopher

 **SHARKBOY:** ;)))))))

 

Jack skates to center ice at six fifty nine. In the locker room, he’d been a rubber-band ball of nervous energy, bouncing his leg up and down in tiny movements that pissed Snowy off, and tying and re-tying his skates until Marty bumped his shoulder and told him to get a move on.

Now, on the ice, he’s feeling less jittery and a little more centered. It’s one period at a time now, and there’s nothing else he can do to prepare for the game. He’s going to have to focus, despite the anxiety that’s hardening in his stomach and making it ache.

Tater’s still a little put off by how Jack had acted towards him, and Jack doesn’t blame him. From what Jack has picked up, Marty and Thirdy are siding with Tater on this one, and even George has sent him an email asking if he’d like to come running with her on Monday. Jack’s going to have to play a very good game to make up for how awful he’s been this week.

To prove he’s not falling off the rails again.

 

They lose.

It’s 2-1 (because of a fucking technicality--but that doesn’t matter now). He hardly remembers leaving the ice, but somehow, he’s sitting at a table with his skates off with cameras flashing at him and Tater obviously trying to make eye contact with him, probably to find a good time to ask Jack why the fuck he thinks he’s good enough to suggest a play like that. Jack doesn’t acknowledge him, just keeps his posture normal and answers questions like a robot.

After press--most of it a blur--Tater asks Jack, “Can I talk with you?” as they walk back towards the locker room, his tone of voice unreadable.

Jack follows, his head aching. He wishes Tater wouldn’t have chosen this moment to berate him for his less-than-stellar game, because he’s going to do that to himself, later, but he follows.

“Can I say something first?” Jack says as soon as they’re out of earshot of the team, his voice unmistakably tired.

Tater nods, studying him closely, but he isn’t slow to say, “This is apology, yes?”.

“It’s--yeah. Tater, I’m so sorry--”

Tater claps him on the shoulder, his serious face gone in favor of a kind one, and Jack almost falls apart in relief. “Zimmboni, I am kidding. I forgive you. You look like sad puppy this week, we worried is all. Will answer my question now? You okay?”

“Yes.” He’s going to have to be, if Bitty’s meeting him at home.

“What happen?”

It’s risky, but--he’s been thinking about it, and if Jack can’t trust Tater, he can’t trust anyone on the team. “Um. My anxiety is...It comes and goes. This week was just...a bad one.”

“Oh, yes,” Tater is completely unfazed, which is a good sign, until, “my sister, she have those-- _attacks_ , you call them? You and she are both shake sometimes.”

“You see that?” Jack asks, and tries not to hunch his shoulders or shove aforementioned hands into his pockets. That means the _others_ \--

“Once or twice. Guy has tremor too, in left hand. Hey. You play a good game tonight, we get them next time. Is okay.” Tater nods at him.

Jack, as low as he feels, decides to accept this. “Is okay,” he echoes, and lets Tater puts an arm around his shoulders to drag him back to the locker room, where Marty slaps him on the back as he passes by.

 

It’s ten thirty-five and he should be on the couch watching America’s Next Top Model with Bitty, but he’s in the kitchen staring at his emergency medication instead. Having the bottle in his hand isn’t great--but usually, his bad days don’t last a week, and the fact that he was so out of it that he lost a game means he should make some sort of change.

Either way, he can’t convince himself to open the lid. His phone keeps buzzing and making him jump and lose his nerve.

 

**[GROUP] Bob Zimmermann; Alicia Zimmermann; Jack Zimmermann**

_10:34 PM, 18th Jan._

**Alicia:**  Beau match!! On est fiers de toi

 **Alicia:** Ton tir était excellent.

 **Bob:**  ta mère m'a fait me déconnecter de Twitter pour je ne tweete pas des trucs grossières à l'arbitre...

 **Alicia:** Oui :)

 **Alicia:** De plus, personne ne utilise pas plus des trois petits points

 **Bob:** Ok...je savais pas que tu était si «hip» et «trendy» surtout que tu as dû acheter les lunettes de lecture hier… mais ok ma caillé!

 **Alicia:** Robert as-tu vraiment l’audace de me faire ça devant notre fils?

 **Bob:** je suis surpris que tu puisses lire ça, avec ta vue comme ça ;-)

 

“Hon, are you gonna come watch?” Bitty asks, approaching from the living room. Jack hears his footsteps stop in the doorway, and then Bitty says, in a much more alarmed tone, “Jack?”

Instinctively, Jack sets the bottle down and steps away from it, startling like he’s doing something wrong. Which he isn’t--he’s pretty sure. “I’m not...I _wasn’t_.”

“Okay,” Bitty says slowly, voice thin with--what? concern? Jack remembers the apprehensive look that he’d seen on Alicia’s face the first time she saw him take his medication after the draft, and wishes it wasn’t mirrored in Bitty’s face right now.

“I just wanted to take one.” Jack wishes he knew how to explain himself, but he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. _He’s_ not even sure he should be allowed unrestricted access to pills right now--even though in theory, he can handle this. It’d be okay for him to take one. “To help me sleep.”

“Has it been bad lately?” Bitty asks. He moves forward, and picks the bottle up to read the label. “Have you had a panic attack?”

“Yeah. Two this week.”

Bitty nods. He smiles, but it’s brittle and sad. “Okay,” he says again. “Sorry for freaking out, seriously, I trust y’all. I was just--surprised.”

“That’s justified,” Jack says. The only context Bitty has on Jack taking his medication is that Jack’s so bad at doing it responsibly that he’d ended up in rehab for a year.

Both of them are quiet for a minute, then Bitty hands the bottle back and smiles again, more genuinely this time around. “Alright, I’m gonna start watching, join me whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Bitty says. He turns and goes back to the couch, and Jack breathes and reminds himself not to project his disappointment in himself onto Bitty.

 

**[TEXT MSG] Alicia Zimmermann**

_10:45 PM, 18th Jan._

**Alicia:** Tu a fait une bonne job cette soirée, mon choux.

 **Alicia:** Ça va mieux?

 

_10:55 PM, 18th Jan._

**Alicia:** Eric me dit qu’il est là, j’arrête m'inquiète mtn.

 **Alicia:** Mais appelle-moi, si tu as besoin.

 

He ends up calling Alicia five minutes later, when his lungs have started to constrict again and he’s holding in tears because he doesn’t want Bitty to have to deal with a meltdown right after he’s just convinced Bitty he’s stable enough to be left alone with his pills. His mother picks up immediately, like she’s been looking at her phone, and Jack tries not to read into that.

“Jack?” she asks when he doesn’t say anything at first.

“ _Maman_.” Jack’s voice breaks, and covers his mouth to hold in the sound of the sob that comes then, trying to swallow it before it even happens.

“Oh, mon coeur.” Somehow, Alicia knows it happened anyway. “Tout va bien. Que s’est-il passé cette semaine, bébé?”

“Je--mon anxieté.” He finds himself sitting on the floor with his back to the cupboards, the meds on the floor next to him. He either sat down or fell, he can’t remember at this point. “C’était mauvais cette semaine. _J’suis_ mauvais.”

“ _Non_ ,” Alicia says. “Tu va bien. Arrête. Le match était dur.”

“Il aurait pas dû!” Jack hisses. “J’ai fait perdre le match pour tout le monde.”

“Jack. C’est juste un mauvaise semaine. Et l’arbitre a prit un mauvaise décision.”

He’s still the one who had suggested the last play. And the one who had missed three shots, only getting one in. George had pulled him aside on his way out and reminded him that he’s going running with her on Monday, and Jack’s trying not to think about that right now.

“Est-ce que papa est déçu de moi?”

“Non,” Alicia assures him immediately, and Jack wipes some tears off of his face.

“Vraiment? Et toi?” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound like pathetic Hospital Jack, who didn’t stop angry-crying for three weeks.

“Vraiment. Il est si fier de toi. _J’suis_ si fière de toi.” Something in her voice is a little calmer, like she can hear that she’s getting through to him. “Eric m’a appelée, il y a dix minutes. Il m’a dit que tu a des médicaments dans ton appartement? Veux-tu prendre certains, ou…?”

“Je sais pas. Euh.” Jack doesn’t want to pick up the bottle again. His breath hitches and he pulls his knees up to his chest. “J’veux pas.”

“D’accord,” Alicia assures him quickly. “Ne le fait pas, Jack, si tu veux pas.”

Jack scrubs at one of his eyes, like he can push the tears back in. “Désolé, maman.”

“Shh. C’est bon. Respire.”

There’s no talking in the kitchen for a while, just Jack breathing harshly and Alicia breathing a lot more calmly and the television in the living room humming about something or other.

Once she’s more sure Jack isn’t on the verge of taking a shot glass full of pills, Alicia clears her throat. “C’est bon, bébé.” Alicia has put up with too much of Jack’s ridiculousness, but for some reason, Jack isn’t sorry he called. She continues, “Tu devrais aller prendre une autre douche et ensuite t'asseoir avec Eric, okay?”

It’s a good plan, and Jack latches onto it. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Alicia agrees quietly. “Merci d'avoir appelée. Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime,” Jack says, sniffling. He gets up and puts the pills back in the cabinet.

 

He gets out of the hottest shower of his life a half an hour later, twenty-four minutes longer than normal. It’s taken him that long to get a fucking grip on himself--a whole hard week’s worth of tears have been building up, apparently. He also did some stalling because he’s sure that Alicia has called Bitty back to tell him more about what’s going on, and Jack didn’t want to walk in on that.

Once he’s toweled off and changed into some soft sweats and a Carrie Underwood t-shirt that Holster gave him, he shuffles back out to the living room and, seeing that Bitty’s hung up on Alicia by now, lies down on the couch with his head on Bitty’s lap. Despite the fact that he can see that Jack’s eyes are still red and puffy, Bitty just nonchalantly ruffles Jack’s still-damp hair and asks, “Feelin’ better, sweetpea?”

“Yeah.” Jack turns onto his back to look up at his boyfriend. “How are _you_ doing?” he croaks, as evenly as he can, then clears his throat.

“Same old,” Bitty says. He leans down and kisses Jack’s forehead, a signal that he’s willing to take over the conversation as long as Jack needs him to. “Sittin’ with my superstar boyfriend and watchin’ Chopped. The lady with blue hair just got cut, which was rough.”

“What!” Jack protests, even though his voice comes out too monotone to sound like he actually cares.

“You’re tellin’ me.” Bitty shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “She did make a risky move with using the ice cream machine, though, so she should have seen that coming.” He sighs heavily. “These fuckin’ yankees don’t know how to make their own damn ice cream.”

Jack giggles at that, a weird high-pitched laugh that’s a little hysterical-sounding. Bitty looks down at him again, suppressing a smile and covering it with indignation as he says, “You _know_ I’m right!”

“Sure, yeah, you’re the expert on cold,” Jack says, “Monsieur Three-Jacket.”

Bitty groans and slaps a hand to his forehead. “That’s not even a good chirp, Zimmermann.”

Still giggling, Jack pokes Bitty’s stomach until Bitty tries to wiggle away.

“ _Stop--_ tickling--!” Bitty tries to scoot, but Jack pushes his feet against the end of the couch so that he shifts forward and pins Bitty more effectively, before wrapping his arms around Bitty’s waist and holding on. “This isn’t fair,” Bitty declares when he’s finally stopped struggling.

“Get good,” Jack mumbles into Bitty’s side, and feels Bitty’s beautiful laugh buzz in his chest.

 

Watching television for a few hours usually gets him sleepy enough to head to bed, but Jack finds himself awake at two thirty-two, still lying on Bitty’s lap. Bitty’s fallen asleep about an hour ago, his head tipped back against the back of the couch, and the television is muted because a WWI documentary had come on--Jack had won the remote and switched to the History Channel--and Jack was worried it was going to be loud enough to wake Bitty up.

His brain is too tired to spin itself into another panic, but he’s quietly thinking about what he needs to do to make sure a week like this doesn’t get this bad again. The list so far is a lot of communication and going back to see a therapist again and scheduling himself more time to sleep. And scheduling more time to see friends--he doesn’t go back to Samwell often enough, even when he has time.

It occurs to him that maybe the scheduling is an issue in itself. Maybe holding himself to a strict standard is bad for him. Either way, he’s too tired right now to make any changes in that regard, so he just looks back at his phone.

 

**[GROUP] coach hall is 30, not 56**

_2:43 AM, 19th Jan._

**Jack:** haha i kfnew that one. nice.

 **SHARKBOY:** oh hi!!!! btw im gonna kill that ref!!

 **Bill Belichick:** THE MVP HIMSELF!

 **Bill Belichick:** Also yes I will see that referee hanged

 **Lardo:** fuck yes human sacrifice i’m in

 **Nursey:** [knife] [knife] [knife]

 **Bill Belichick** : Wait jack do you know who adele is.

 **Jack:** should i?

 **Bill Belichick:** What in the shit...JACK

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** Adele is MANDATORY knowledge. Where the fuck is Bitty

 **Bill Belichick:** Ransy wtf i thought you were asleep

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** yeah i faked it because i dont give a shit about coldplay lol

 **Nursey:** ijnoijuhujhijhbuiohujinkl

 **SHARKBOY:** hhhhhh stone cold betrayal!!

 **Jack:** _[IMG_13432]_

 **Jack:** he’s asleep.

 **SHARKBOY:** OMG

 **Lardo:** wtf ? yall gay ?

 **Nursey:** yall

 **SHARKBOY:** yall lol

 **Lardo:** can you clowns leave me alone for two seconds

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** can we fine long-distance

 **Bill Belichick:** Idk if we can come back from this justin.

 **Bill Belichick:** But absolutley fine laws still apply over state lines

 **Jack:** also, whats coldplay? haha.

 **Bill Belichick:** JACK

 **Lardo:** oh big fuckin mood bro

 **SHARKBOY:** JAKCK

 **SHARKBOY:** LARDO

 **Bill Belichick** : LARDS WHAT ARE YOU SAYING RN

 **Mashkov Please Interact:** same lol

 **Bill Belichick:** RANSOM STOP TESTING ME.

 

Having his friends cheerfully shout at him and each other is better than sitting caught up in his own head, so he just watches them send messages faster than what he can keep up with. Eventually, though, Holster mentions that he has obligations the next day, and the rest of them all seem to realize how late they’re up and bid Jack goodnight, and then they’re gone. Jack looks at the time and finds that it’s three twenty-five. He only has about an hour and a half until his alarm goes off, and if he skips his run a second time he knows he’ll feel worse about himself.

So for now, he can try to sleep. He sits up and slowly nudges Bitty into a position that’s better for his neck, and then Jack lies down in the space left over.

 

He opens his eyes to find Bitty still there, sitting up on the edge of the couch and scrolling through Twitter. There’s sunlight streaming in through the open window across the room, and he squints, not used to it yet. He sits up to lean over and put his forehead against Bitty’s shoulder, blindly searching with one hand to find where his phone had gone.

“Good morning, honey,” Bitty says softly, and kisses the top of his head. “Sleep well?”

“Mm.” Jack locates his phone and finds that it’s ten oh eight. His back is a little sore from sleeping on the couch, and his eyes feel dry and achy from being up too late, despite the fact that he’s slept in. He’s slept in _five hours_. “Did you turn off my alarm?”

“Yeah.”

“I missed my run,” he says. His chest twinges.

“Alicia told me to let you sleep in.”

Jack exhales and watches Bitty’s face for a reaction when he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it was getting bad.”

“I don’t think it’s fair that you told me you were coming down with a cold.” Bitty clicks his phone off and puts it down, steeling himself for what’s clearly about to be a discussion, and Jack fights the urge to wring his hands. “Why did you lie?”

Jack rubs his face. “I don’t know. You’re stressed with...school, and I didn’t want to ruin your day.” He sighs. “I should have told you.”

“Jack, if I didn’t want to hear, I wouldn’t ask,” Bitty tells him, like he has sixty times before. He turns on the couch so he’s facing Jack, sitting criss-cross with his knee overlapping Jack’s leg and reminding Jack to stay present.

Jack doesn’t know how to respond without making more excuses, so he just nods.

Bitty asks, “Did you tell _anyone_?”

“No.” Jack huffs through his nose, more of a scoff than an actual laugh. Neither of them voice the obvious _even though he was supposed to_.

Instead, they fall quiet, listening to the cars drive by outside and the sound of a police siren in the distance, watching the sun stretch across the floor. Bitty seems to be thinking about how to choose his words, so Jack gives him the time he needs.

 

**[TEXT MSG] Bob Zimmermann**

_10:24 AM, 19th Jan._

**Bob: [ATTACH: CONTACT--Therese Bayle]**

**Bob:** alicia m’a demandé de toi ceci envoyer. prends soin de toi.

 **Bob:** jtm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a sister piece to "let me know" which I wrote two years ago, I wanted to get more into how Jack is doin' as a person and also work through understanding how his anxiety works a little better (partially because I was having a pretty bad week when I started writing this too--oops). 
> 
> The update where Bitty sat with Jack to help him calm down was very sweet and sort of inspired this too-- Jack mentioned that he's usually alone when he has anxiety attacks, and the boys talked through how he was feeling in a way that sort of made me think that while Bitty isn't always there, they have some sort of precedent for Jack keeping him somewhat up-to-date on how he's feeling. Given that Jack isn't always the best at expressing how he's feeling, and the fact that he trusted Bitty enough to come out and get help when he needed it, it seemed like something had to have happened for Jack to start to jump that particular romantic hurdle. The real third base is having a complete fucking breakdown in front of your partner, after all. So that's where this came from. 
> 
> To clarify some stuff irt Jack and medication: because of his history of substance abuse, it seems like he would have wanted to take a path that wouldn't require him to be taking medication regularly. In this story, he's been prescribed some emergency medication a few years ago, and has fallen out of contact with his therapist, instead of making time to go see her as much as he should. The situation's complicated, but I tried to make it clear that he's going to start figuring out a better option for him so that he can try and take better care of himself.
> 
> Text slang:  
> jtm= je t'aime (i love you)  
> mtn= maintenant (now)
> 
> All this rambling to say: 1) I really liked practicing my French! 2) and writing the gcs. 3) I'm so proud of Jack Zimmermann every day. 4) Thank you for reading!


End file.
